Lord, I don’t know what to do, so my eyes are on you.
She was capable of eloquence. She appreciated beautiful liturgies and ancient creeds. But God didn’t need flowery speech to hear her prayers. And she didn’t have it in her to do more than breathe in and out the same words over and over.My eyes are on you. My eyes are on you. My eyes are on you.
Her week had been ... surreal. She’d been dropped right into a Salvador Dali painting, where everything she knew was still there but distorted in new and mostly disturbing ways.
Tuesday was a repeat of Monday, except Faith had shown up with coffee at ten instead of Tessa, and Zane had shown up midafternoon instead of Luke.
Zane was quiet. Reflective. He didn’t get into her business the way Luke had. But he also dropped a few bombs into her world, including the fact that Gil was investigating everyone she’d ever known but was focused on her mom, Preston, and Ab.
When she later questioned Gil about it, and she did this as he cranked the engine of his car after he picked her up from work,Gil didn’t deny it. But he didn’t tell her anything more than what Zane had told her.
Then he asked her a question about her favorite ice cream flavors, which led to a discussion about the merits, or lack thereof, of vanilla ice cream, with her arguing in defense of vanilla and Gil pointing out the superior qualities of every other flavor. She was laughing when they pulled into her driveway, and for a little while, she forgot about the chaos swirling around her.
It was like he was on a mission to keep her distracted so she wouldn’t ask too many questions, and while she let him distract her, and even enjoyed the break from reality, she wasn’t fooled.
No matter how hard Gil worked to keep her mind occupied, his continued presence, the way agents kept showing up at her office and police cars continued to drive through her parking lot, shouted at her that she was in danger. To make the situation worse, she had no idea how to get out of being in danger. And the scariest part was that nobody else knew either.
When they got to her house, Gil let her help in the kitchen—if pulling out plates and silverware and then unloading three mugs from the dishwasher counted as helping. He not only served her crab cakes and a homemade remoulade sauce that rivaled the best she’d had anywhere, including Maryland, he also proceeded to prep something in her Crock-Pot for the next day. And instead of calling it good, he pulled out a roll of cookie dough, homemade by him and apparently mixed up the night before after she went to bed, and made the most amazing chocolate chip cookies that had ever been dipped in milk.
While he did this, she sat at the bar and they reminisced, the conversation focused on her college days. As much as she enjoyed spending time with him and the way he kept her mind from cartwheeling down a twisted and terrifying path, whenhe started dropping hints about her needing sleep, she wasn’t hard to convince. Had she ever been this drained? Mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually—she had nothing left to draw from.
In the quiet and aloneness of her room, the fear she’d been able to beat back when she was in Gil’s presence climbed on her back and threatened to strangle her. She could have gone to Gil. Told him she was scared. He would have held her. But he had enough on his mind. Her personal terror would only add to the burden he already shouldered. She crawled into bed and fell asleep, praying with every exhale.
Now it was morning. She’d survived another night. And her house smelled amazing. Coffee and something nutty and buttery. The low murmur of deep voices told her either Zane or Luke had joined Gil last night and had stayed for breakfast.
Gil had to stop doing all the cooking. She’d told him that on Monday and again last night. He’d ignored her. But she was having a hard time complaining. Gil was amazing in the kitchen, and while her left hand was fully functional, the broken fingers on her right hand and her still-aching right shoulder made everything she did take longer. Not having to fix her own breakfast was something she could get used to.
Yesterday morning she’d been out of it thanks to that stupid pain pill, and she’d walked right to the kitchen in her pajamas. Last night she’d skipped the pain pill in favor of over-the-counter medicine, and this morning she had the good sense to stay in her room until she tamed her hair. She hurried through her morning routine and thirty minutes later walked to her kitchen. Gil was the only one in view. “Good morning.”
“Morning, Buttercup. How did you sleep?” Gil handed her a cup of coffee.
It had so much cream, it was almost white. She took a sip. Perfection. “Did it cause you physical pain to make this for me?”
“I powered through.” He winked. “Yours isn’t as bad as Emily’s.” He nodded to the counter. “Hungry?”
“Starving.” At her remark, he set a plate with two muffins, a healthy portion of scrambled eggs, and a bowl of sliced strawberries in front of her. “And spoiled.”
He brushed her hand with his and said, “Not possible.” He took a sip of his own coffee and then waited for her to take a bite. “Luke and Zane are en route to the hotel.”
She almost choked. “What?”
“Tessa is going to be your shadow today.”
“What?”
“I’ll be around, but not as obvious as Tessa. Tessa looks less threatening, so we decided she was the best option for the overt presence.”
“Excuse me?”
“Of course”—Gil got a wicked glint in his eyes—“looks can be deceiving, and that makes her one of the most dangerous agents we have.”
“Gil! What are you talking about?”
“Protection for your pitch today,” Gil said as calmly as if he’d commented on the weather and not on the fact that a Secret Service agent planned to hang out with her all day. Whether he was oblivious to her mental drama or simply choosing to ignore it, he continued. “You’ll be out of the office, in public, lots of people. If I were trying to nab you, that’s where I’d do it.”
Ivy set her fork on the plate. “You would?” Did that squeaky sound come from her?
Gil leaned toward her, eyes holding hers. “He won’t succeed.” There was no mistaking the confidence in his remark.
